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Large size in stockings is hard to sell


by Henry E. Powderly II


It was a retail sleight of hand he never could master, the “Ma'am, I think you need a larger size” sale. Because a muffin top is flattering. Two waists are better than one.
   
He often imagined how he would look with a fluffy flesh ring spilling over his jeans. He even thought he'd tattoo tire treads on the overhang, for a laugh. He'd already tattooed an eyeball to the back of his head. Most of the year, he kept it hidden under his hair. But once a year he'd shave his head, letting the reverse cyclops out from behind the curtain, for a few laughs. If the retailer's district manager ever saw it he'd probably lose his job, but that annual risk was what got him through another year peddling fickle fashions to teens and tourists.

Shit, he'd donate his brain to the CEO if it meant he could forget the workday as soon as it ended.

He'd been to three last-day happy hours in the past month, playing the lucky one because he got to buy the drinks. If it was his party he'd order the best Scotch in the place and chase it with strawberry daiquiri. But it would never happen, he was the Zen master of sweater folding.

She claimed he was ignoring her, which was a good call, but he knew what would happen. She asked for medium.

“Your great granny thinks you'd better take the large.”
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